Double Cross

Chapter 26

IT WAS TIME for the second story to unfold.

Nine hundred fifty-five brave souls were filing toward and into their plush seats at the Ke

A crew of thirty-seven worked behind the scenes here. Impressive. Expensive too.

A cast of no fewer than seventeen trod the boards.

And one lone figure waited, quietly, underneath the stage.

Dr. Xander Swift.

At three o’clock that afternoon, he’d come in through the stage door. A large toolbox in hand and a few rehearsed phrases about the boiler were all it took. Inside the toolbox were his props.

Pistol.

Ice pick, just in case.

Butane torch.

Supply of ethanol.

Now it was more than five hours later and almost time for the main act. Above his head, the play was in progress. The house was full, theater lovers one and all, drama and suspense fans.

Matthew Jay Walker was well into a scene in which he talked somewhat robotically with another character on a monitor. Walker was excessively handsome, of course, a little shorter than expected, and quite the spoiled brat, if truth be known. His agent had made demands for fresh exotic fruit, a supply of Evian water, a personal makeup artist. Now it was time for Walker to meet his costar.

“Hello, Matthew Jay! Greetings,” said Dr. Swift. “I’m here… behind you.”

The actor looked around, surprised-no, shocked-when the trapdoor in the stage floor, normally used only in the second act, flew open.

“What th -”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so sorry for the interruption,” said Dr. Xander Swift in a loud, clear, commanding voice that could be heard way up in the cheap seats. “But please, may I have your attention, your full attention, your undivided attention? This is a matter of life and death.”

Chapter 27

AT FIRST, the only noticeable stir in the audience was that of riffling pages as dozens of people looked to their programs to see who this was up on the stage.

Matthew Jay Walker turned his back to the audience and spoke in a whisper. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the hell are you? Get off the stage! Now!”

Suddenly, Dr. Xander Swift held forth a pistol until it nearly touched the actor’s face. He let his hand shake, as if he were nervous-which he was not. “Shhh,” he said in a stage whisper. “You don’t have any lines here.”

He continued to push the gun at the actor until Walker went down on his knees. “Please,” Walker said on mike, “I’ll do whatever you want. Just calm down.”

“Call nine one one,” someone yelled out in the front row. The audience was finally begi

The killer addressed them. “I am Dr. Xander Swift, from Immunization and Control. I must inform you that this man has been tagged for extinction,” he explained. “Frankly, I’m as shocked and saddened as you are.”

“He’s crazy! He’s not an actor!” cried Matthew Jay Walker suddenly.

“I’m not crazy. There’s a very sensible plan,” replied Dr. Swift.

Holding his gun on the actor with one hand, Swift began to swab Walker with ethanol gel from an industrial foil pouch in one of his pockets. He plastered the gel down the actor’s chest, through his wavy blond hair, under his chin. The smell was so intense that Walker gagged and choked. “What are you doing? Please, stop!” he cried out.

Now the audience was on its feet. Shouts came from the wings. “Stop him! Somebody get up there. Where is security?”

The doctor’s voice boomed from the stage again. “Anyone who comes up here will be shot dead. Thank you for your attention and your patience. Now please, watch closely! This will be indelible in your mind’s eye. Never to be forgotten by any of you, so help me God!”

A butane torch sparked in his hand. Then ethanol exploded into flame all over Matthew Jay Walker’s body. The actor’s face seemed to melt away, and he screamed in terrible pain. He began to whirl around in circles, trying to beat out the fire that was crisping his skin.

“You’re watching the rapid disintegration of flesh,” Dr. Swift explained. “Happens all the time in war zones. Iraq, Palestine, distant places like that. Fairly routine, this. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.”

Then he ran swiftly across the stage, away from the screaming actor, who was now rolling on the floor. He used his torch to ignite the black masking drapes that hung there. They caught immediately, with a dramatic whoosh.

“Hold your applause! Please, hold your applause,” he called to the audience, his audience now. “Thank you so much! Thank you! You’re fabulous!”

He did a half bow, then disappeared from sight off the stage. Next, he nearly flew down a steep flight of stairs to a fire exit and out into an alleyway in back. A high-pitched door alarm screamed behind him.

Dr. Swift moved aside an empty crate in the alley and picked up an expandable nylon duffel he’d left there earlier that day. He deposited his gun, torch, and coat inside. Then the thick glasses, the contact lenses, the beard, the prominent forehead. Finally the shock of salt-and-pepper hair he’d worn for the role.

Once again, he was himself, and he exited the alley onto the street, where he turned away just as the first fire truck was arriving.

It was done, his mission accomplished, his part played very close to perfection. Now Dr. Xander Swift could disappear from the earth forever, just as the Iraqi had after he murdered the crime writer in front of all those appreciative fans.

My God, I’m good, he thought, and his chest swelled with genuine pride. After all these years, I’m making it big.

A few blocks away from the Ke

“You were wonderful.” She beamed and kissed the killer on the cheek. “I’m so proud of us.”

Chapter 28

“ALEX, COME AND LOOK at this. It’s unbelievable. Actually, it’s insane. Look at this, will you?”

Bree was holding up something in a clear plastic evidence bag when I found her and Sampson on the stage of the main theater at the Ke

I had assumed even before I got there that this was the same crazy perp as at the Riverwalk. Why else would Bree have called me?

“Show him the card,” Sampson said. “Found it underneath the trapdoor where he came in. Looks like this freak watched too much TV in the ’90s.”

Bree handed over the evidence bag, and I took it reluctantly.

Inside was a handmade postcard. One side was black, with a large, bright-green letter X, in what looked like a degraded close-up of an old typewriter font. On the other side, in letters clipped from magazines, ransom-note style, were the words The Truth Is Out There.

“The X-Files.” Bree said what I was already thinking. “Tagline from the TV show. ‘The Truth Is Out There.’ We don’t know if this murder was based on a particular episode, but it might have been.”

“The same killer,” I said. “Has to be him.”

“Supposedly this guy was white. Older too, in his fifties or sixties,” said Sampson.

I swept my arm around the stage. “You’ve got a dozen expert witnesses to talk to here. If anyone can recognize makeup, it’s going to be actors. Two murders based on specific source material, though. Both with some kind of calling card left behind for us to find.”